


What Fate Demands

by KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Battlefront (Video Games), Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Clone Troopers (Star Wars), Battle, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, No Beta We Die Like Clones, battlefront two inspired, for laughs, let's pretend order 66 didn't happen, various droids regret existing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 11:01:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay/pseuds/KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay
Summary: Inspired by Lifeoflemoon's Clone Trooper Puns series! Please go check them out!-Fate is a perfectly average, not at all a problem officer. Or, he is normally a perfectly average officer. Up until the point his blaster runs a bit too hot, and suddenly it feels like the droids are shooting a bit too slow.He's fine. He has clearly never been a problem.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	What Fate Demands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lifeoflemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifeoflemoon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Puns on Felucia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25642003) by [Lifeoflemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifeoflemoon/pseuds/Lifeoflemoon). 



Fate was one of those clones that had earned his rank. It wasn’t glaringly apparent at first sight, the officer didn’t quite seem to be any more out of the ordinary than any other clone you might’ve met, but it became one of those things you only knew with time, or instant exposure to it, as some of the  _ vod’e  _ learned.

Some longed for the days that Fate didn’t have reinforced gauntlets. Others took a moment to think about this opinion, and remembered the days, and then promptly remembered Fate dislocating his knuckles on a tri-weekly basis, and or having to treat the officer. 

The  _ vod’e  _ as a whole were typically known to be medic avoidant, and it wasn’t an uncommon thing to berate or joke about, but unlike what some people would think, Fate was a generally all around respectful  _ vod  _ up until the moment his blaster overheated and an unfortunate clanker made the mistake of stepping into view, and even worse, into range.

His pistol, constantly switched out with a variety of different gadgets, saw a horrendous amount of abuse as Fate used it to pistol whip and uppercut metal casing. It was scratched up, and loved, and people didn’t even dare to remark that maybe his ‘18 had such bad cooling since he had gotten it was because he had smashed the unit into a commando droid's shoulder before denting their face in with his  _ foot.  _

But. Otherwise. Fate was a perfectly normal, almost abnormally polite clone. Competent, and with the thighs of some sort of intergalactic god, but. Normal. He didn’t talk about his batchmates, or attempt to heavily discourage the worst of things that the  _ vod’e  _ might get up to, he was just an officer.

That, really, was the most disturbing part once you had seen the other side of him. He shared many of the common interests, but took his duties as a member of the army far more seriously than was strictly necessary. It wasn’t unknown for some clones to have an unhealthy obsession with removing the separatist clankers from the face of the galaxy, but witnessing it was something better left unspoken of, and shoved into the back of one's brain. 

Fate took care of his squad, was almost eerily hypervigilant of equipment and turrets, and was a shot worthy of a  _ vod.  _ Normal, typical, scarily fine with being taken care of, but that was a preferred trait over the alternative. 

-

One unfortunate campaign, Fate had already sent one of his squad to medbay, patched up best as he could, which was actually rather well, and the remainder of them were stuck in a standstill, trying not to be pushed back by the seppies.

Fate was almost single-handedly holding the point with his turret, kama blocking the worst of what he could’ve been hit with, and his own agility taking care of the rest. Just about every shot he took downed a B1, and kept it from being overwhelming. His squadmates tried to cover him, but got overwhelmed in the thick of it, and didn’t want to accidentally scrape too close to Fate with their rifles. 

The turret, in a split second, sputtered. The sound sent Fate reeling for his belt and tossing out his last shock-grenade. A helpful lend, and something not quite usually in his arsenal. It didn’t affect as many as he had anticipated, and the disappointing results had him biting back a curse over his comms. He steadied his aim. Another squad moved in somewhat, and Fate was grateful for any help he could get.

He took one pitiful glance at his turret, which he had been nurturing for up to an hour now, and winced at the sight of it on its last legs. He sighed, and made the better decision. He shot the fuel tank. It, as he, and no one else, as he had unfortunately noticed, anticipated, promptly blew up in a violent spurt of shrapnel. His kama caught a few pieces, and his helmet got scratched up by a wayward piece. His paint had probably scraped off, and he couldn’t take more than a few moments to grimace at the thought. 

The other squad was doing well with the assist, but Fate had kept stubbornly shooting, and hadn’t noticed his blaster heating up a tad too hot until one shot had sent smoke up, and a sudden burst of pain. He waved it frantically, hoping that it’d cool in time for the next assault. 

Just when he thought he’d be able to start shooting again, he got ambushed. The blade glanced off his backplate, but left a nasty gash where it had been, he was thankful it hadn’t gone any deeper than it had. Or, that’s probably what he would’ve thought, but instead, he did something incredibly dumb, and far more than impulsive. 

Fate pushed against the blade, made sure it was  _ embedded  _ into his backplate, and then he twisted. Any other clone would’ve called the move either suicidal or downright nonsensical, but it had achieved the effect he needed, and that’s all he cared about. The commando droid didn’t quite know how to react when he disarmed it, and he took that split second of opportunity to lunge forward and  _ swing. _

His squadmates stood there and cringed, letting a few shots off when they needed, but generally watching their downright karked in the head officer brawl with the commando droid. Though, a brawl would imply that the droid had managed to swing back. It, unfortunately for it, didn’t quite manage to do so.

A few lingering B1’s had tried to interfere with Fate, and the other squad that had dropped in for support made an effort to pick them off before they could reach the officer, but had stalled, and stared as Fate simply took them down before he even saw them in his peripheral vision. It was just as horrifying as the first time. Whit grimaced, and then cringed inside his helmet as soon as Fate  _ kicked  _ the head off of the next B1. 

His gun was definitely perfectly fine to use at this point, but Fate seemed to have completely forgotten about it in favor of using complete and utter brute force. One went down, two went down, Fate had barely glanced at it, but tugged the sword that was  _ still embedded in his armor  _ out, and used it to end number three and four. 

The B1’s seemed to have developed some sort of sense, because they were no longer entering Fate’s range, and instead making potshots from a distance. Unfortunately, that wasn’t quite any more effective with Fate’s heavy kama protecting him. The aforementioned clone took another lunge, and this one sent him airborne as he took what Whit might’ve assumed to be number seven out with his thighs. 

The officer of the support squad looked perturbed, but also intrinsically  _ fascinated.  _ Whit cringed. Their troopers, left with almost nothing to shoot, continued to almost oogle at his officer rather than move on to the next chokepoint. He pursed his lips under the helmet, and scowled. He whistled, and Fate was far too into his weird death haze to notice beyond one sharp glance to check on him before he was back to murdering unfortunate seppies. 

The squad, however, noticed Whit in his perch after a few moments, and promptly realized just why he had done that. They shuffled around, but took up their blasters and provided cover again. Just in time for the commander's voice to drone out over the main comm channel. He paused. Glanced over at his officer, who happened to be guarding the point that the sep’s happened to need, back to the squad, and then, with great dread, Whit raised his sniper.

He carefully switched modes, and the zoom tightened. He propped it up in the crook of his shoulder, and glanced through the scope, and into what he really hoped wasn’t another wave coming for their point. The commander’s warning rang through his head again, and Whit spotted Grievous, and in the next second, threw an unprimed shock grenade at Fate.

The officer, temporarily evicted from his haze, caught the orb with eerily perfect accuracy, and glanced back at him in favor of chasing after the now running B1’s. Whit sighed in relief. And waved him over to where he and Drei were crouched, previously trying to defend the point from above before their heavy had to tap out for medbay. 

Fate wasn’t moving quite as fast as he’d like, he waved again, more frantically, and the officer sped up. Unfortunately, in vain. By the time that Fate had made it to what Whit would call the halfway point, Grievous had somehow managed to skitter over the point, and towards his CO. Whit had a few heart wrenching moments to slap Drei’s shoulder before both of them raised their individual rifles as fast as they could to shoot at the cyborg's feet.

Anyone else, and the Arch Clanker probably wouldn’t have been bothered, but no one really likes a high powered blaster bolt to the foot, especially ones designed to go through heads made of the same material. The shots gave Fate a few more moments to comprehend what was going on, up until the absolute  _ di’kuit  _ did what Whit had been dreading this entire time.

His heart leapt to his throat as his CO made possibly the dumbest choice in his entire nine years of life, and threw the shock grenade in the wrong direction. 

It wasn’t necessarily the wrong direction, but it definitely wasn’t towards the giant, looming, hunk of metal that Whit desperately hoped would leave Fate in one piece. The grenade actually took out a large chunk of Grievous's reinforcements, it was really an excellent throw in all standards, but Whit couldn’t help but want to scream as his officer took a running start. 

Grievous took out his lightsabers, and it felt like an absolute eternity as Fate leaped up, and wrapped around the cyborg's big metal face. Grievous must’ve been surprised, because he wasn’t quite able to light any of his lightsabers as the clone changed his center of gravity, and tried his absolute hardest to punch his face in. 

He was able to shrug his off his neck before Fate could get any idea about what to do with his thighs, but the clone only got up and went for his legs, keeping the cyborg from being able to ignite a single one of his damn lightsabers and chopping any one of his limbs off. Whit panicked inside of his helmet. Fate, no matter how effortlessly terrifying, couldn’t keep this up forever. He looked at his rifle, but all he could think of was accidentally shooting his officer instead of the separatist. Drei was mouthing something, and took out his rangefinder. 

The B1’s were moving in, and Whit cursed, cursed and switched out his rifle for a smaller pistol he kept holstered. He abandoned his perch to join the other squad, and he tried to ignore the way he kept on listening for the telltale sound of a lightsaber igniting. The only relief was nothing at all. Drei remained up high, a steadier shot, but far more anxious than Whit. He trusted him to do just fine. Drei wasn’t a suicidal idiot with too much physical ability to possibly be healthy.

There was a horrible, quiet series of seconds where Whit dived, and the ring of a lightsaber came into being. There was no scream other than Grievous's rasp, before that was interrupted by the smooth sound of the 212th’s Jedi. Whit resisted the urge to turn around, and kept on shooting. He ignored the shaking in his hands, and the moisture under his helmet. 

The Jedi came into view, chasing Grievous down, forcing him farther from the point. Maneuvering his defense so well that the seppie had no choice  _ but  _ to move back. Whit took a split second to look back, and saw Fate on the ground, red armor covering whatever damage he might’ve taken. Whit outright threw the smaller blaster, and sprinted towards his brother, faster than what a normal clone might’ve been in that moment. 

Just before Whit could slide over and probably collapse, Fate groaned under his helmet, heavily muffled, and rolled onto his side. The sniper resisted the urge to beat his head in with his gun. Fate, despite the utter reel of bantha-crap he had committed, didn’t quite deserve it. 

Whit forced him up, lugging his forward and wheezing with the weight of Fate in armor, and once he was in sitting position checked over his armor. He found the scrapes and gouges in his helmet, and his gauntlets and backplate in complete and utter disarray. 

Whit hesitated for a moment, before he took off his helmet and started furiously whispering at Fate. He held his helmet in his shaky hands, slowly steading. “How, just how are you still alive you absolute  _ di’kuit _ ?” His CO’s tallies stared him in the face in response, but Fate grasped his arm, shook his head side to side a little, and his next exhale sounded far more strained than it should’ve been. Whit quickly shoved his helmet back on, and helped Fate get back up. He glanced up at where Drei should be, and waved.

-

Carbon leaned over Fate, and then back at the scanner, complete and utter disbelief written over his face. He waved the datapad, and then gestured over to his absolutely battered armor with both of his arms. Various non-verbal expressions of disbelief coming out of his throat.

He sounded strangled for a brief moment. “You. Fate. How the complete and utter hell did you--?” He clasped a hand over his mouth, and looked conflicted. “You’ve got bruising around your thighs and parts of your shins, I don’t even want you looking at your abdomen in the next two weeks, let alone working out, and I think you managed to pop two of your fingers out of place, again.” Carbon looked back at him strangely. “And yet, for some reason despite reports of you  _ fighting Grievous _ , you’ve got no open wounds besides a cut from shrapnel on your eyebrow. That’s statistically improbable Fate.” He stressed.

Fate straightened out the covers on his cot, and looked entirely sheepish. Whit was standing in the corner, looking tired like he always did after a campaign. The targeted clone spoke up. “Well, I think I did a pretty alright job of keeping his lightsabers away from me.” Fate sounded like an awkward shiny trying to explain just what happened on Coruscant that One Time. “And I did feel my fingers do some stuff inside my gloves, I think.” He didn’t at all sound like an officer under Carbon’s scrutiny. 

The medic made another strangled noise, and simply sighed. He looked at Whit, awkwardly positioned by the doorway. “Well, I’m going to need to smear Fate in bacta, but he should be just fine after a while.” Carbon rubbed the back of his head and grimaced. He muttered one last remark. “Though, I’m not quite sure how.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This was done in a fit of complete and utter impulse, but look at it! It's got a decent length! It's got clones! It's got inspo!! This is a success! I am winning!
> 
> -
> 
> Whit uses Scramble Infiltration for the speed boost, and it is my personal goal to beat as many things to death as physically possible as an officer in a single round. I killed Grievous once, I WILL do it again.


End file.
